


Signs of Life

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: (but not a holiday fic), Alternate Universe - John Reese Lives, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Disabling Character Injury, First Kiss, Fix-It, Getting Together, Grief, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, New Years, Post-Episode: s05e13 Return 0, Retirement, Suicidal Thoughts, WIP Big Bang, post-Samaritan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26539288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: The Man in the Suit and Detective Riley died on that rooftop, but somehow, the man who was once both is still kicking. Barely. And as John lies around in a hospital bed alone after saving Harold and the world from Samaritan, he struggles to come to terms with the fact that his life isn't over and that it will never be the same.Then Harold shows up, as weary and heartbroken as John, and John starts to wonder if he might have a future after all.Or, a "return 0" fix-it that doesn't fix everything, but it just might be a step in the right direction.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 24
Kudos: 117
Collections: WIP Big Bang 2020





	Signs of Life

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** Disabling character injury, internalized ableism, John Reese-typical suicidal ideation/thoughts, canon character deaths
> 
> Posted for WIP Big Bang 2020.
> 
>  **When I Started:** Sometime last year? Scrivener says the file was created in June 2019. I'm not sure if that's the first file or not, but it was definitely last year.
> 
>  **How I Lost My Shit:** I don't know? I wrote a rough draft of this thing, finished it, started editing it, and then just...stopped. I don't even remember why I stopped. It was about 5k. It had potential. I probably got distracted by an exchange deadline or something. But it sat around collecting dust for a while, and every now and then, I'd think, _ArgylePirateWD, you should really finish that one._ Then I'd just...not do that?
> 
>  **How I Finished My Shit:** With lots and lots of editing and rewriting and new writing. I was originally going to work on another project for this, a sequel to a fic I wrote last year, but that thing was simply too big for me to finish in time. I had this one lying around, though, needing to be polished properly, so I dove in.
> 
> Slowly, Signs of Life ballooned to over 15k words. I fought with it a bunch. I thought about quitting a lot. I don't know why it was so hard to get it to finally come together and become what it needed to be, but I'm proud of how it turned out.
> 
> And I couldn't have pulled it off without the fabulous talkingtothesky and stingalingaling betaing this thing—thank you. You rock. And, also, thank you to the people who liked and reblogged the snippets of this thing that I posted on Tumblr. You also rock.
> 
> Finally, be sure to check out greygerbil's [fantastic art](https://greygerbil.tumblr.com/post/630041341609541632/here-is-my-picture-for-argylepiratewd-s-signs-of) for the fic! Go look at it! :D

He spends his days floating between surgeries, one after another after another, adrift in a fog-covered sea of anesthetics and narcotics and infection. His body is one big gunshot wound, his skin more sutures than flesh. Even the doctors can't tell him how many times he got hit, or if he'll ever walk or breathe without help again, or if he'll leave the hospital through the door instead of the morgue.

The Man in the Suit and Detective Riley died on that rooftop, but somehow, the man who was once both is still kicking. Or twitching. "Kicking" is way too generous, he thinks. But his heart's still beating in his cracked wreck of a rib cage, even though it's stopped a few times. His mind's still working, every now and then. Sometimes he's grateful that all the crap that hit his head when the missile struck didn't mess up his brain. Sometimes he's not.

Usually, he's not.

He goes under again, surfaces again, under, surface, over and over again, helpless to stop it, lost in that damn ugly mess of pain and fatigue. The fever breaks, returns, breaks again. The chest tubes come out. The tube down his throat comes out, gets replaced by those annoying little ones in his nose, and stays out except during surgeries. There are fewer and fewer of those now. Fewer rounds of debridement for his burns, thank god. Fewer stitches, too.

They're not sure if he'll ever get to ditch the bag they've got hooked to his healing gut, though, or if his shattered and burned legs will ever hold him up again. Might not get to keep one of those legs, either, or the crushed and mangled mess that was once his right hand. They keep trying to fix them. They're not sure it'll work.

They are pretty sure he'll never be free from pain again.

Chronic pain. Harold dealt with chronic pain. Maybe he should have someone find Harold and ask for some pointers.

No. Because then Harold would rush to his side and demand that he live, and John never has been any good at denying Harold anything, except for that last time, when he was trying to save Harold's life. Then John would become a burden. He doesn't want to be a burden, especially not for Harold. Best to leave him alone. Let Harold be happy with Grace. Let him have his happy ending.

There's also a tiny voice in John's head that whispers, _What if Harold doesn't come?_ A dark, ugly part of him keeps bringing up Harold not coming over and joining him on that roof, even though that was what he _wanted_. That was exactly what he wanted. He wanted Harold as far away from that rooftop as possible, would've given anything for Harold to have been in a whole other country from that roof.

And yet…

It would be worse now, John thinks, more painful now, after all he's done, after all he's lost. Oh, he doesn't regret it—he'll never regret saving Harold. It's just...what if Harold finds out he's in such bad shape and discards him like the broken weapon he is? Or what if it doesn't matter if he's healthy or not, and Harold just wants to close this chapter of his life?

Thinking about it _hurts_. He knows that's not who Harold is, but, Jesus, it hurts more than all the holes and cracks in his busted body, has him fumbling for the clicker they've got controlling his morphine and pushing the button frantically even though he's just had a dose a little while ago. He just...he can't think that. Can't handle thinking Harold might not need him anymore, might not _want_ him anymore, that all those years of fire-forged friendship and all the love hidden in his heart might not mean shit.

So John tries not to think that way. He shoves those thoughts and all others aside, and he tries to imagine Harold happy instead. Happy, in love, in Italy with Grace. Roaming through the ancient city together, going to art galleries together, eating good food and smiling and getting married in a modest little ceremony in front of Lionel and Shaw. All of them blissfully unaware of the state their old friend John Reese is in.

God, he really hopes that Harold is alive and happy, because he's not. He's not dead, but he sure as hell can't see any signs he's alive. And happy? John would laugh bitterly if he could.

He was happy with how he died. He'd always wanted to go out doing something good, and he did. He got to save the person who meant more to him than anyone else in the world, the person he loved more than anyone, and the rest of the world along with him. It was a good death, a better death than he deserved, an ending he could be—and was—proud of.

But now? Where the _fuck_ is he supposed to go from here?

Maybe he's just in Hell. There's a lot less fire and brimstone and a lot more of the good drugs than he would've expected, but maybe that's just part of the eternity of torture: lulling him into a false sense of security. Make him think his wounds are being treated, that he's being cared for, then pull the rug out from under him. It's how he would've done it once.

Speculation is exhausting. Existence is exhausting. Fuck it.

He goes under again, letting the black hood of unconsciousness swallow him whole and drag him down into the dark. Comes back again, to his dismay, just in time for another surgery on his fucked up right leg, the doctor saying something about him finally being stable enough. Under. Back. Under. Back. Drifting and drowning. For days, weeks, who knows? Not John.

Faces float by in the rare moments of consciousness—the nurses and techs, the doctors. It's difficult to attach names to the people, even the ones he sees every day. He has enough sense left to pick up that he's in the hospital's Thornhill Wing, and that his name is John Hawke—so The Machine survived, then. Good girl. And Harold's kid shares her dad's thing for birds, apparently—but everything else is a blur of people and words and pain.

Sometimes he sees Harold in the fog, or Shaw, or Fusco, or Iris, or Zoe, or Grace—or Root Elias Joss Jessica Kara Mark Scarface Dominic, that bastard Greer lording over him with a smug and nasty grin, even his parents and sister and a whole damn parade of others, and he's not sure which ones are real or which ones are imaginary. Some of those people hated him, and so damn many of them are _dead_ that his brain might as well be a cemetery.

Like his dad. His dad is long gone, and he's pretty sure he wouldn't have been proud of him if he wasn't—no way that one was real. Didn't stop the tears from hitting like a few fists to the face, though.

All the dead people give that afterlife theory of his a little more weight. Then he overhears a nurse say that no one's been in to see him, and, oh. Great. As if he wasn't confused enough already. Thanks.

"That's a shame," another nurse says. "He seems so nice."

John does manage a weak chuckle at that. Nice. Right. A few acts of heroism don't make a man good, or _nice_.

They don't even seem to realize his pathetic little cough was a laugh.

He sees Harold's face the most often, of course, staring down at him with immense pity and disdain, because his brain is a _dick_. It's nothing new. His mind has conjured that image a billion times by now, was doing it long before he got injured. It's so familiar it's boring.

That's when his brain isn't telling him that Harold died. That they went out in that last blaze of glory together, that Harold got shot in that vault and bled out in a stairwell on his way out of the wrong building, or maybe just inside the door, or maybe he didn't make it to the other building at all. Harold's ghost visits him a few times, covered in burn scars sometimes, or with bloodstained, gaping voids where his guts or his heart should be, and kisses him with lips that taste of iron and salt and hot ash.

But none of them are real. None of the visitors, none of the Harolds. Good. Everyone probably thinks he's dead then. That makes it easier. He's useless like this, broken, and once this place comes to its senses and kicks him to the curb, there will be no one there to stop him from completing the mission as he'd planned. No one to keep him from dying to save Harold and the world.

The hospital should probably just stop trying to fix him, he thinks. Where's ol' Dr. Kevorkian when you need him? Everyone is just wasting their time, and his.

"Why don't you just let me go?" he asks the doctors, the nurses, the hallucinations. It takes so much energy to speak that he usually sinks back under before he can finish, or before anyone can answer.

Until the day that it doesn't, and he hears a familiar voice say, "Because it took me far too long to learn you were alive, Mr. Reese, and I'd quite like you to stay that way, thank you."

It's the details that trip John up. The deep blue suit and the copper tie and pocket square are unquestionably Harold Finch's, or Crane's, or one of Harold's other disgustingly rich aliases, not drab Professor Whistler's. All of the other Harolds were Whistler. The cologne is the scent he wore before Samaritan, too. He's thinner than he should be, with the wan, slightly haggard look of someone who's been ill for a while, but the flush of someone who's finally healing. And he's smiling.

None of the other Harolds smiled at him.

There's no gold band on Harold's finger, though, which is kind of a surprise. Surely if he went back to Grace, there should be a wedding ring by now. He can't see either of them wasting anymore time. Or maybe it hasn't been as long as he thought since the shit hit the fan. Maybe they're still planning the perfect wedding right now. Maybe they'll even invite him. But why isn't she here? Why aren't they attached at the hip after everything they've been through?

Did Harold even go back to her?

"Now that I have found you..." maybe-Harold continues, dragging a chair over to John's bedside. Its metal legs screech across the floor, an ugly, grating sound, and Harold's expression of horror and dismay is so purely and comically _Harold_ that John's lips twitch in a hint of a laugh. "Oh, goodness."

Maybe-Harold sits down gingerly, wincing, a hand flitting briefly to his belly like it's sore before his expression smooths out. That thought that's been nagging at John's brain ever since that last day, just out of reach outside his nightmares, finally comes together: Harold got shot while they were in the vault. No wonder he keeps dreaming about it. He didn't consciously notice it then, too distracted by the battle and Harold trying to lock him in and rush off to die, but he can _see_ it now. Some of the sounds Harold made, the way he moved after—those bastards got him in the gut. How did he not catch that then?

Before he can ask if he's right, Harold starts talking again. "Now that I have found you," he says, "I haven't the slightest intention of ever letting you out of my sight again, much less letting you go. Why on earth would I?"

That wave of old misery crashes down on him again. _Because I'm useless now_ , he thinks, wants to say, but he's too weak for it. Too weak for words. Fuck. If he can't manage words, he'll never be able to work another number. He'll never be able to save another life.

Harold's face falls so abruptly that John must have said some of that aloud after all. "Oh, John," he says, voice soft, so kind and sad it hurts to hear it. John looks away, staring at the blind-covered window. Then, Harold takes his good hand in both of his, and they're so warm and solid on John's cold, dry skin, they feel so _real_.

Maybe they are real. Perhaps Harold really is here, saying, "John, you are not useless at all. In fact, your continued existence—your continued presence in my life, your friendship—would be of great use to me, regardless of your physical condition." Then, more hesitantly, Harold adds, "If I may have it, of course."

John chooses to believe that Harold is here, chooses to once again believe in Harold Finch. It's a rare bit of comfort, this faith in Harold, a bit of clarity in the haze of drugs and weakness and pain. A raft in this state of sinking and sinking and not being able to swim anymore. "Of course," he rasps, barely audible. "Always."

Harold's mouth falls open for a moment, before he exhales loudly, his tense shoulders sagging, and his lips curve in a tiny, relieved smile. "Excellent," he says. "That is...wonderful to hear."

The interaction is enough to wear John out, though. He twitches his fingers against Harold's palm and slurs, "Sorry, Finch. Going under again," with a regretful half-grin.

"Oh, no, that's perfectly alright, Mr. Reese," Harold says, voice quiet and kind again. There's an unfamiliar shine in his eyes, one that makes John's chest ache when he looks at it. "Rest, please. You've been through a great deal of physical trauma. We'll talk again when you feel up to it."

John falls into the dark, unable to do anything else, his descent cushioned by a glow of faint, feeble hope.

* * *

When John drifts back from another nightmare about Harold, he's alone, and sure he imagined Harold's visit. It feels like a dream, like every other time Harold's shown up, the memory of Harold's presence wrapped in the same fog as the other ones. But there's a cup from an unfamiliar coffee shop on the table near his bed, the letters "EEN TE" and half of an "A" all that's visible from his spot, written in a stranger's big, blocky handwriting. He smiles to himself, all of those times Harold's bitched about places only selling "ambiguous green tea" popping into his head. Even though it's not sencha, no one else would leave a cup of green tea sitting nearby.

For the first time he can remember, the blinds are open, too, cloudy gray light filtering in from a breathtaking city he doesn't recognize from so many floors up gleaming outside. There's a small couch below the window that he barely noticed before, ugly shit-brown fake leather and big, fat cushions, and, on the wall across from him, a painting of birds flying over a pond hanging under a TV he's never watched.

Huh. Somehow none of that registered before.

He catches the sound of voices, too, after a moment. It doesn't take long to place them: one of his doctors and—his heart jumps, and his mouth stretches into an even bigger smile before his brain fully catches up—Harold. Harold _is_ still there, just like he said he would be.

John closes his eyes and _listens_ , basking in the sound of Harold speaking nearby, not really understanding them as much as he probably should. They're talking about him, about how much of a trainwreck his body is, but the words slip through his brain like water through a sieve. That they're chatting at all is kind of a wonder—it's been a long time since he's gotten info out of American hospitals that easily. Someone—or maybe something—must've pulled a few strings for Harold.

But who cares? Not him.

He does catch "disability will likely be permanent" from his doctor, and something about "mobility aids"—nothing he didn't already know, deep down—and an answering, "I certainly know a thing or two about that," from Harold. He doesn't bother trying to hear the rest. Instead, he lets the rhythm of Harold's familiar, distinctive voice seep into his many aching wounds, and he falls asleep again.

* * *

It's easier to come back next time. Not so much physically—his brain is still mush, still mired in drugs and recovery—but it's not as hard to handle. Not with someone out there waiting for him.

Whenever he floats back to the surface, Harold is still there, and the next time, and the next, no matter the time. Harold brings in a laptop, and he types when John doesn't have the strength for much, or dozes on the little sofa when his own wound gets to him. They talk when John can, about everything, their conversations often stretching late into the night. Visiting hours, it seems, don't exist in the Thornhill Wing.

They talk about The Machine making her comeback, how she kicked Samaritan's sorry ass and went right on back to work helping people. About her ordering Harold into retirement, telling him he won't be getting anymore numbers out of her despite their "many, _many_ arguments on the subject." About her telling Harold she's going to keep the name "The Machine," because it's the one he gave her.

They talk about John's own escape from the vault, when Harold asks. About how close he came to never reaching the roof, thanks to the feds and Samaritan. "She tried to keep both of us off their radar," he says, "but she prioritized you."

Harold stares in disbelief, mind boggled. "The fate of the world hung in the balance," he says, slowly, "and she prioritized the safety of the man she was sending to the wrong roof?"

John can't help smiling. Oh, Harold. He doesn't get it. _I'm not the only one who'd die for you_ , he thinks. "She called it protecting her father."

"Hmph. Clearly she and I will have to have another discussion in the very near future."

They talk about Fusco and Shaw, John asking, "How they doing?"

"Back to handling the numbers," Harold says, "Detective Fusco was stabbed in the abdomen—" John inhales sharply. He's always joked that it was impossible to get rid of Lionel, that he's like a fungus, but what if... "—but, fortunately, the, ah, padding on his midsection protected him a bit better than my own did. He's recovering well. No complications."

John exhales. Thank god.

"And Ms. Shaw is, as always, her inimitable self, albeit a significantly more muted version, from what I've been told."

"She's grieving," John says.

"Yes. They both are—over Root and us. They believe us to be dead." Harold pauses for a moment, head tilted slightly, considering, then, much more quietly, says, "I'm...not sure if I'm ready to disabuse them of the notion of my passing yet, to be perfectly honest."

"Me, neither," John says. "Someday, but...not yet." Maybe it makes him an asshole, maybe not, but he's not ready to see them again. Not yet. Not while he's like this.

And at least he's not alone in it. "Not yet," Harold agrees. "Not just yet."

They talk about Harold getting shot, and how he went to Italy long before he should have been traveling, then wound up with a nasty infection and nearly died on Grace for good.

"Quite foolish of me, I admit," Harold says, "but I just..." He shakes his head, blinking his eyes, and John gets it instantly. Harold felt lost. Broken. He needed her.

"I probably would've done the same damn thing." Or he would've never gone back at all. That's more his style.

"It nearly cost me my life. Apparently the abdominal organs do not appreciate having bullets in them for an extended period of time, especially not when that's followed by international travel—who would have guessed?" Harold grimaces, his cheeks turning pink, and rests his hand lightly on his stomach. "I'm still experiencing a great deal of...difficulties, and the normal—" He waves toward his belly, then places his hand on it again. "—bodily functions and malfunctions are quite uncomfortable."

John forces himself not to show his shock. Damn. Harold never would've told him about any "difficulties" like that before. Is it a rare slip-up, he wonders, or does Harold trust him more now?

Not wanting to spook Harold, John decides he'd better not ask. "Yeah," he says. "Gutshots are tough." He pats his own heavily-bandaged abdomen, fingertips brushing against the bag his docs still say is only temporary. "I kind of miss food, but, uh...I'm not looking forward to the day some dick decides it's time for me to eat again."

Harold winces. "Oh, no. I do not envy you in the slightest, Mr. Reese."

They settle into silence, but the question that's been lurking in the back of John's mind since Harold showed up slips into focus again. Drugs and blood loss and trust are bad about removing the filters between the brain and the mouth, and even though there has to be a reason Harold's barely talking about her, John still asks, "So, how is Grace?"

Harold opens and closes his mouth, staring, caught out, his eyes huge behind his glasses. "Oh," he says, straightening up in his seat and smoothing down the front of his dark brown sweater vest, eyes averted. "She's...doing well, I suppose."

The uncertainty in Harold's voice hits John like a fresh slug to the gut. Harold and Grace aren't together anymore. Harold went back to her, but didn't stay with her. "You don't know," John says, and he can't figure out how to feel about that.

"Not for sure, no," Harold confirms. "I haven't spoken with her since shortly before The Machine made contact with me about you—since I was released from the hospital again, actually."

"You didn't stay together."

"We didn't," Harold says, and John can tell from his tone that he won't be getting an explanation anytime soon. "It was...for the best, I think."

"Okay." There's no reason to try to argue, to say that Harold should have stayed, and no energy for it anyway. They are too much alike, in far too many ways. John would have done the same thing—has done the same thing, in fact. He let Jessica walk away for her sake, left Iris for the same reason. It wouldn't have been right if he'd stayed, wouldn't have been fair to either of them, even though it probably would've meant Jess would stay alive. They deserved better. Jess didn't get it, but she deserved it. Someday, Iris probably will.

So does Grace, Harold probably thinks.

But John can't help feeling a pang of disappointment, battling with a faint glimmer of hope that he stomps before it can come to life, his impossible love for Harold never far from his mind. He sacrificed himself so Harold could _live_ , so Harold could get his happy ending. Harold being Harold didn't even cross his mind.

"John, I'm sorry if...if you feel that this dishonors all that you have sacrificed," Harold says, his expression turning unbearably sad. "I did try to make things work. I just...it wasn't fair to her, in the end. I'm sorry."

"Just want you happy," John says. Harold's face falls even more, and his eyes begin to shine. He looks like he's about to cry. "You okay, Harold?"

With a nod, Harold bites his lip, blinking hard. "Yes. I just..." He swallows visibly, his throat bobbing. "Happiness. It seems so impossible now. After everything...it will all hit me, so suddenly, all over again, and I'll wonder how I'm supposed to be happy now.

"You make me happy," Harold continues. "Your return. Goodness, you have no idea how happy I am to see you again. I can hardly believe you're actually here. I thought—" His voice cracks.

John tries to reach out to him, barely moving an inch, sending a wave of pain through his entire torso, every bullet-ridden muscle crying out, chest and gut and back all protesting the tiny movement. Time for more meds, he thinks, but he doesn’t want them just yet. He slumps back down, hoping Harold didn't notice. "I'm right here, Harold." Luckily, the weakness of his voice covers the pain in it. "I made it."

"Yes, but I...John, I _knew_ that I would never see you again, and it was...oh, dear."

Harold pauses for a deep breath, then straightens up in his seat. He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his eyes like he's irritated with himself for crying, for showing so much emotion. Harold doesn't cry. It's a rule. But he is for John.

John doesn't know how to feel about that.

"Losing you was—" Harold's voice breaks again, and he blinks back more tears. "Oh, goodness." He dabs at his eyes again. "It was a blow I was not sure I could possibly recover from. It was supposed to be me up there. It should have been me there, here."

"But you hate hospitals," John points out, deliberately flippant.

"That's beside the point." Harold pauses. "I wanted to come for you. I tried to come for you. But I couldn't." The more he talks, the more it sounds like he's wanted to say these things for weeks, words spilling out fast and half-defensive. "I'd been shot, and I-I'd lost too much blood, and I was in so much pain, and I—"

"Didn't want you to come," John says.

Harold's eyes are full of anguish. "I fully intended to," he says, "but I passed out. I made it to the ground floor, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up from surgery." He takes a deep breath, then he seems to regain some of his usual composure. "I will always come for you, John. _Always_. I just...I didn't make it that time. When it counted. John, I am so sorry."

"Didn't want you to come," John repeats. "That was the plan."

"It was a terrible plan," Harold says. "I was the one who was supposed to—"

"No," John says, firmly, with much more strength than he thought he had. "Not you. Never you." Fuck Harold's guilt. How has he not realized that if he'd been the one who died that day, John would have died soon after, too, and it would've stuck? "This...this is how it's supposed to be: Me. Never you."

"And if I find that completely unacceptable?"

"Too damn bad."

Harold huffs, and John can hear the irritated, fond, _You asshole_ , that Harold is much too polite to ever say aloud lurking beneath the sound.

It's not going to ease Harold's distress, though. Time to bring out the big guns. "I've lost everyone I've ever loved," John says, softly. "My family, Jessica, Joss...but you? You helped. And losing you would—" John's heart and throat clench at once. "I wouldn't make it after that."

"John, you are a remarkably—"

"This isn't an opinion, Finch."

"—resilient individual. I'm sure you could have—"

"Harold," John says, sharply, and Harold's mouth snaps shut. "I wouldn't make it. I wouldn't even try."

From the day he lost his first grandparent to now, he's been surrounded by death. Harold joining that parade of dead—there's only one way that would've ended. Harold has done so much for him, Harold matters so much to him. A world without Harold in it? Is a world that's too dark for him.

"I don't regret what I did—sacrificing myself for you. I'd die for you every time."

Harold makes a helpless little broken noise, and John desperately wishes his strength wasn't waning, that he wasn't so tired and weak, so he could reach out and comfort Harold properly. He'd take Harold into his arms, pull him to his chest, hold him close until the screaming dies down in both their heads. Maybe, if he was feeling brave enough, he'd even kiss Harold's temples, his cheeks, his mouth, his entire face.

But all he can do is brush his fingers against Harold's again, as Harold says, "John, I have _missed you_ so very much. Please, don't ever do this to me again."

"Only one way to stop me: Don't give me a reason to save you, and I won't save you."

Harold lets out a mirthless huff. "And how do I manage that?"

Not a surprising answer. With a grin, John lets his eyes fall shut. "You're the genius. Figure it out."

* * *

Time ticks along, becoming less and less disjointed as the days pass by. It's December, John guesses, confirms when the Christmas spirit starts trickling into the hospital. When he gets wheeled around for scans, he spots more and more garlands and glittering lights adorning the halls, ribbons in shades of green and red and gold, a few sparkling trees both large and small here and there. Huh. He would've thought he'd slept through December. Apparently not.

He did miss Thanksgiving, though, looks like. He doesn't mind too much. While he's got a lot to be grateful for these days—even though he's not always grateful for it—he's pretty sure the big turkey dinner with all the trimmings would tear his and Harold's healing guts to pieces.

December in the hospital. All the strangers seem grim and unhappy, save for a few kids and the stray expectant parent. It's depressing for everyone—the people here for the long haul like him, the ones rearranging their lives just in time for the holidays, the staff. Should be hard for him, too, he thinks, but it's not. Not with Harold around.

That's all he would've asked for for Christmas, cheesy as it sounds. He may not be spending the day baking gingerbread men and making out with Harold under the mistletoe, but this is good. There's a big bright spot shining in the middle of the long, monotonous days of sleeping and aching, and it's not the tinsel or the lights—it's Harold. He flits in each day the same way as always, burrowed in a thick wool coat and a colorful array of tasteful scarves, a cup of that ambiguous "green tea" he keeps making faces over in hand and a black fedora on his head, seemingly immune to the looming holiday.

Every time he appears, John's chest feels lighter, and his mouth curls into an aching smile. Doesn't matter how bad the pain is that day, or how many times the nurses and lab techs woke him up the night before, or if Harold bustles in late and babbling apologies, or if he goes pale and bails when they're changing the dressings on his arm and legs or drawing blood. Harold makes everything better, just by being there.

The one-month anniversary falls in there somewhere, coming and going with little fanfare. Harold is subdued that day, haunted and a little sick, but John...it doesn't feel real to him. Surreal, maybe, but not believable. But also, to his surprise, not bad.

It's a strange feeling. Kind of a good one. Then he remembers a conversation he had with Harold once, back at the Library, right before the FBI got him forever ago. _"But I felt...happy. Must be this job."_

Oh. _Oh._ Maybe it wasn't the job, even back then—maybe it was the guy who gave it to him. And maybe he can feel that way again, with Harold's help.

One of his many doctors—he doesn't remember her name—adds to his mood, for once, with the bittersweet news that he'll probably get to keep all his limbs, barring any complications. "They'll never be the same," she warns both of them. "I don't think you're going to regain much function in your hand, and you'll definitely be needing extensive physical therapy, most likely in an inpatient facility, to regain any use of your legs, but—"

"I'm ah, kind of ambidextrous." John holds up his left hand. "I can manage the hand. But the other part..."

"Any other assistance he needs, I am more than willing to provide," Harold adds. "I have the means to set up alternate accommodations for his recovery, if John is amenable...but I'm guessing it'll be awhile until he's ready for that."

"With his injuries, yes," the doctor says. "We're talking months, most likely." She turns to John. "Your legs _are_ healing well, though—a lot better than we expected. I'd like to get you out of that bed sometime after the first of the year, just to get a better idea of what we're working with here, but I'll have to talk to the rest of your treatment team before I proceed. How does that sound?"

John looks for the restlessness he'd usually feel after being pinned to a bed like this for so long, and finds only the aches and burning pains not muted by the morphine, the weakness and exhaustion. He gives his doctor a forced smile and says, "Good," with no sincerity.

The doctor laughs a little. "That's what I thought."

Once she leaves, he and Harold sit in silence for a while, Harold letting him digest the information. He's surprised to find he's somewhat okay with it. Oh, it'll probably punch him hard at some point, maybe once all the painkillers and sedatives are fully out of his system, but for now, he's okay. His entire life has revolved around being good at shooting people and taking them out, and now…

"Guess I really won't be going after bad guys anymore, huh?" he says, voice hollow and rough. There are guns he could use, yeah, some with modifications, but the chasing, the capturing, the rescuing? Those days are over.

"I suppose not," Harold says. "Perhaps that's for the best."

"Yeah, maybe." His stomach feels uneasy, a prickle of terror bubbling away, but it's muffled, muted. "Always thought 'retirement' would be a euphemism for me. Guess not."

"I'm sorry." Harold's voice is gentle, heavy with sadness. "She has—The Machine has—told me a few times since our reunion that your retirement would be the most likely outcome of this. She's been analyzing your medical records, keeping tabs on you..."

"Of course she has."

"She does wonder if you will be content with that. But it's something that she—that both of us—want for you, and we've both been brainstorming about what you might be able to do to help out in the future. Would you be alright with that—with us coming up with a new path for you? I don't want to force you in any particular direction, and neither does she, and if you simply want to rest for now on, that's fine—you have _more_ than earned some rest."

"I'm not really someone who rests, Finch." Could he be? He's not sure.

"I know. But it is an option—there are many of those still available to you now. Would you like to do something other than working the numbers?"

John considers it, thinking of all the times he's been sidelined over the years, all the frustration when he couldn't _do_ anything. It would be easy to say, _Yeah, sure_ , right now, but—and perhaps it means some parts of therapy besides dating his therapist stuck with him a little—he knows himself well enough to reply, "Ask me that again when I'm back on my feet again."

Harold nods once, and says, "Okay. I will do that."

Even with his gradual recovery on their minds, neither of them are big fans of Christmas—too many losses under their belts for that. But John has the hilarious and cherished tradition of Harold bitching about Christianity versus paganism, and the commercialism of the holiday to warm his soul.

They're the same rants Harold's been making since that first year, when John was lying around gutshot and bored, much like this, and John tucks Harold's snarky and familiar vitriol around his heart like a well-worn blanket. Just like back then, John can't resist winding Harold up and listening to him go, or calling him the Grinch or Scrooge. Harold plays along, clearly in a better mood than he claims, and it's _good_. It feels like old times.

"Guess that means you're not bringing me a tree, huh?" John teases, after one of those spiels, and Harold huffs and rolls his eyes, while John keeps smiling and smiling. He probably looks like a lovesick dumbass, grin toothy and wide, eyes damn near _moony_ over Harold. He doesn't mind. Harold is special. Everyone should be in love with him.

And the next day, when Harold unzips his laptop bag, he pulls out a tiny Christmas tree, no more than six inches tall, and sets it on the rolling table he's commandeered for his computer.

"It even lights up," he says, flipping it over and flicking a small switch, and a tiny rainbow of lights comes to life amid the dark green branches. John's throat and chest clench unexpectedly, and his eyes start to sting. "Battery operated. It's not much, but…" Harold presses his lips together. "I thought you might appreciate it."

"It's cute," John says, and has to clear his throat. "I, uh, I like it."

Harold stares at him for a moment, mouth gaping slightly, until surprise turns into the tiniest smile, and Harold's cheeks turn the faintest hint of pink. "Well, good. I'm glad."

A few gifts start trickling in soon after from the people who rescued him, little impersonal trinkets like bags of nice coffee, a soft gray scarf, and colorful Christmas cards. The Machine sends him, of all things, a stuffed brown dog with pointy ears that has "Get well soon" embroidered in gold on its black collar and "THANK YOU" engraved on its dangling ID tag instead of a name. Harold quickly spots the camera embedded in one of its eyes and the bug hidden in its nose, and heaves a beleaguered sigh.

John laughs and waves at the camera. Harold's phone buzzes almost immediately, and, scowling, Harold hurries to check it.

"She says she just wants to keep a better eye on you," Harold says, and the phone buzzes again. "And that whether it stays or not should be up to you." Another buzz has Harold's frown deepening. "'When I care about someone, I plant a hidden camera in their Christmas present.' Really?"

 _"When I care about someone, I plant a tracking device on them."_ Of course she heard that. "It can stay," John says, smiling, and he takes the toy from Harold and looks deep into the camera eye. He thinks of all the cameras he's stared down over the years, when he's been curious or angry or desperate, and he wonders if she's thinking of them, too. "It's cute."

There's not enough room for it to stay on his bed—not with all the wires and tubes—so Harold sets it on the couch, eying it with blatant distrust as he angles it away from himself. "She wanted to watch _you_ ," he says, sounding defensive, and John shrugs as best he can.

"That's fine." And it is. She helped him save Harold, then managed to save him, too. She can get away with a lot now.

When Harold finally leaves for the night, John turns to the toy and says, "You're welcome," and, "Thank you," hoping his voice and the microphone are strong enough for her to hear him.

A red light blinks on in the dog's other eye, just long enough that John knows he's not imagining it. He falls asleep smiling.

Despite his disdain for the holiday, Harold gives him a few presents on the 25th, too, handing him a little pot of cherry lip balm that's easy to pop open one-handed and a set of three keys with an enigmatic smile. "Another little mystery for you to mull over as you recover," he says, when John jingles the keys with a questioning raised eyebrow. "I'll show you when you're well."

 _When_ , not _if_. Huh. When did he start to have a _when_ to think about?

John decides not to think about that too hard. He focuses on the keys instead. They look like door keys, simple gray steel, unremarkable, cool in his hand. "Did you buy me another apartment, Harold?"

Harold quirks his lips. "You'll see."

"I didn't get you anything." He had something in mind—one of the many rare books Harold lost to Samaritan, maybe—but then the world kind of went to hell. "Sorry."

Harold stares, mouth hanging open. Then he says, "You _saved my life_ —and everyone else's. You don't owe anyone any sort of gift ever again," and takes John's injured hand in his, gentle and careful. "Besides, you still being alive despite everything is a far greater gift than I ever could have asked for or been given by anyone."

John's throat closes up at that, and his eyes burn. He manages a hoarse, "Thanks," then a softer, "Merry Christmas, Finch."

With a fond smile and shining eyes, Harold says, "Bah humbug, Mr. Reese," and John grins so wide it hurts. His smile grows even wider when Harold adds, "Merry Christmas."

After a moment, Harold's smile turns to nervous unease, and he speaks again. "Actually," he says, "there is something I would like." He bites his lip.

"Name it," John says.

Harold exhales. "I'd like to stay here for a while, if you don't mind."

"Really?" Harold nods, and John's face breaks into a grin. "I'd like that."

Harold's eyes widen. "Oh." His slowly-building smile is the most beautiful thing John has ever seen. "Excellent."

That evening, Harold gets a nurse to fetch a cot for him. It looks uncomfortable as hell, but he spends the entire night at John's side. Then the next one, and the next, and the next, leaving only to retrieve clothes, not complaining when the cot hurts his back and leaves him stiff and sore, and not disturbing the toy dog with the camera in its eye.

Harold usually wakes up first, and John will find him already hard at work when it's still dark outside, tea and his breakfast—or, when it's really early, vending machine hot cocoa and a plastic-wrapped danish—close at hand, fingers flying across the laptop keyboard. Neither of them talks about the noises he hears Harold making in the night, the ones he probably makes too, the whimpers and cries and occasional pleas as their brains torture them without a shred of mercy.

They share so many of the same kinds of scars.

By unspoken agreement, their world is peaceful in the aftermath of their nightmares. Harold will smile and tell him good morning as soon as his eyes flutter open, and John will lie there and watch Harold type for what seems like hours, or he'll close his eyes again and just listen, and he'll feel _good_ for a while. Calm. Happy.

 _Happy_. His idea of happiness might not fit anyone else's, but it's hard-won, earned after fighting for it and nearly giving everything. He hurts, he's miserable and broken, but for a while every day, he gets to be happy.

He hopes Harold is at least a little bit happy, too.

Harold is there at his side, safe and alive and healing—there by choice, even. Where John can see him, where John can silently love him. For so long, he didn't have that, _couldn't_ have that, had to hide everything that mattered from an all-seeing AI. Now he can just be with Harold, and it takes more effort to keep from smiling like a jackass all the time than it does to do anything else.

One day, though, he wakes up, and Harold is sitting at his side, head bowed and eyes closed, his head propped on clasped hands. Not sleeping—John knows the difference, knows the sound of Harold's breathing and the shape of his face when he's at rest. His eyes are shut too tightly, and his frown is far too deep for sleep.

John reaches for him and brushes the pads of his fingers against Harold's cheek. Harold's eyes flutter open, wide and mournful, and John strokes his face, giving Harold a tiny, sleepy smile as he lets his hand roam. All these years, and he's never touched Harold like this. Harold's skin is warm, soft and smooth and delicate. It feels good to touch it, to touch Harold, finally, unknotting the tension squeezing John's wounded chest.

And Harold allows it. He thinks back to the first time he found Harold sleeping at his desk, the annoyed, _"Don't you_ knock _?"_ as Harold glared at him with bleary-eyed irritation. God, how far they've come.

More lines crease the corners of Harold's eyes than the day they met, and darker circles linger on the fragile skin beneath them. The grays in Harold's thin and spiky hair keep multiplying. But he's so _beautiful_. His big blue eyes, his pink lips, his odd face, the shape of his soft body in his nice plaid suit. He's beautiful. Maybe not beautiful to some, but to John, he's _everything_ , and John would do anything in the world to erase all the sadness and pain from his face.

"Hey there," John says. "You okay?"

Harold sighs heavily, his eyes falling closed again. "Not particularly." He leans back in his seat, and John's hand falls away, leaving the lingering memory of warmth and softness on his skin. Then, Harold winces, and rubs at the back of his neck, and John's stomach twists with sympathy. That cot must be hell on him.

He and The Machine had several conversations about Harold's health during those last days of the war, both of them fretting about how hard Harold worked himself, how tired he was, how much he hurt.

 _"He's in much more pain than you realize,"_ she told him. _"I know he wouldn't want me to tell you that, but…"_

 _"I already guessed,"_ John said. _"Wounds like his—they're not painless. And they don't heal easy."_

_"No, they don't."_

But Harold would never hear it if John suggested staying in a hotel or something again, might even be hurt. Instead, John asks, "So, uh, when are you gonna whisk me away to some safe house to recover?" as Harold tries to stretch his back and winds up clutching his healing front instead.

"Soon. Very, very soon. I think it might be time to talk to The Machine about making those alternate arrangements for your recovery."

"So the keys..."

"Oh, you're not ready for that yet, nor, quite frankly, am I." Harold straightens up carefully, and smooths his hands down his front, straightening his vest. "Until you have recovered as fully as your body will allow, I'd prefer if you stayed closer to a facility that handles medical emergencies."

"And you?" John gestures toward Harold's belly. "Do _you_ need to stay close to a hospital?"

Harold puffs out his cheeks, then blows out a loud breath through pursed lips. "Not anymore, I don't think. I visited a gastroenterologist right before Christmas. Despite my setback in Italy, I am recovering well, according to her." His hand goes to his stomach. "And, at some point, I should be back to, if not one hundred percent, at least ninety-something. I simply have to endure the discomfort in the meantime. And, of course—" He gestures toward John, then lays his hand back on his belly. "—my discomfort pales in comparison to yours. Goodness."

"I'm fine," John says—a blatant lie that has Harold looking even more heartbroken. "They've got me on the good stuff. And it's not a competition."

"No. No, it's not. I just..." Harold sighs, and drops his hands to his lap. "I hate seeing you in this much pain."

A sickly feeling builds in John's stomach, dread and regret and misery pooling and roiling within him. _Broken_ , he thinks. He's broken. And Harold's too polite and too good of a man to say it or believe it.

"I wish all of this could have played out differently," Harold continues. "You don't deserve this. You don't deserve _any_ of this."

Part of him disagrees. After everything he's done—does the good really cancel out all the bad? He's not so sure. But Harold is. Harold thinks he is. Maybe he is. Maybe he doesn't deserve it.

And maybe it's not about him being broken, John realizes. Despite all the secrecy, Harold's not as good at hiding things as he thinks he is. Or maybe John's just known him too long, all those moments where it was them against the world turning him into a near expert on Harold. "You wish it was you."

Harold shrugs, a wry, unamused expression twisting his mouth. John's jaw tightens, and Harold says, "I told you once I'd never lie to you," and John lets out a bitter laugh. "I meant it. Seeing you like this...hurts me very deeply. And I wish I knew how to take away your pain somehow."

"I did it for you."

"I'm aware. I never asked you to. This..." Harold gestures toward the monitors and wires and tubes, the bed, the bandages. "None of this is what I wanted for you, ever. It's why I intended to sacrifice myself. I thought you deserved a chance at happiness. You could've found love again, you could—children. John, you've mentioned wanting children before."

"Bit old for that, Finch." 

"Not necessarily. You could've met somebody, or perhaps reunited with Dr. Campbell—I'm sure something could've been worked out there—and had a child: a daughter, perhaps, or maybe a little boy named Harold. It would have been an honor to live on in that way, I think, even if I wouldn't have gotten to see it."

Harold sighs, quiet and sad, and, for one terrifying moment, John thinks of saying, _"I'd rather have you."_ But Harold speaks again before he can. "I thought that, if anyone deserved a happily-ever-after, after everything they'd been through, it was you. _Certainly_ not me.

"But I know you, John, and how you think of yourself. I don't think you're broken. I think you could still have any of those things. And I know that you disagree, and I hate that you feel that way, and I am _so_ incredibly sorry that I am responsible for that. That I am the reason for it. Though I suppose we do have some time to work on that now, together. Or perhaps you might prefer to work on it with someone else?"

"What?" John stares at him, confused. Who else could he possibly want?

Harold smiles faintly, but it doesn't last. "We do have other friends who are still around."

"Fusco," John says. Shit. "Shaw."

"Yes."

"They'd probably like to see you," John says. "Probably miss you."

"And you," Harold says, and John clenches his eyes shut. "I'm sure they'd be delighted to see you as well."

"Not like this. I can't—" There are so many ways he could finish that sentence. Can't stay awake very long, can't get out of bed, can't even shit or piss, can't do much of anything. Can't fire a gun. Can't save anyone.

He hears Harold lean forward and forces his eyes open. "I remember that feeling well," Harold says, softly. "I didn't have the same relationship with my body as you do, of course, and I wasn't as badly injured. But I do remember what it was like to suddenly be living in a body that hurt constantly and refused to obey me. How degrading it felt to require somebody's assistance for even the simplest, most private of activities, when all I wanted was to be left alone. How devastating it was to know that I would never be as I once was again. How frightening it all was."

John turns his head away, and immediately thinks of how Harold can't. But Harold can walk. Harold can do so many things. John was always the one who did the things Harold couldn't. Harold said he'd _"never felt so helpless in my entire life"_ once. John changed that for him—and now he's the helpless one, helpless and useless and broken. The world doesn't make sense anymore. And now he's going to have to live in it?

"I'd never realized a person could be in that much pain and not be on the brink of death," Harold says. "I was never truly suicidal, but I do remember begging more than once for someone to put me out of my misery."

"Are you about to tell me it gets better?" John growls.

Harold lets out an unamused huff. "You know me far better than that, John," he says. "I'm no authority on how this will go. I'll be frank with you: There are moments still, even now, when I'm not certain that I can bear the pain of continuing to exist. Moments when it is brutal and ugly and horrific, when I am in so much pain I can hardly bear it. Moments when I wish that the bombing had taken me out, too."

That gives John pause. Harold has never admitted to him that it was the ferry bombing that left him injured. John suspected it—finding out what happened to Ingram was a pretty big hint, and the panic attack when they got on that ferry what feels like forever ago was as good a confirmation as any—but he's never said it. Until now.

Huh. John wonders what it means that he's saying it now.

Harold continues speaking. "But there have also been moments where I was quite grateful that I survived. That I almost enjoy being alive, that I actually _do_ enjoy being alive. Not quite as many lately, but someone who is quite dear to me just came back into my life, and I was able to spend Christmas with him, so I suspect that might change soon."

"I want it to change," John says.

"But you're in pain," Harold says. "You're injured. Your entire life has changed. But you're alive, for better or worse. Life is, as always, a mixed bag. Whether I can say that it gets better or not? I don't know. And considering that I am recovering from a gunshot wound to the abdomen, I suspect I may not be the greatest judge of that.

"Just...just don't count yourself out yet, John. Don't think that the current state of your body means you shouldn't reconnect with people you care about, that you aren't worthy of them, that there aren't beautiful, incredible things still waiting for you in this world. You did an incredibly brave, incredibly remarkable thing."

Harold pauses, then continues. "I, however..." His face slowly falls, and when he speaks again, he's quiet, restrained. Regretful. "I caused the death of my best friend and a great number of innocents, and then went on to one day cause the deaths of several other friends and the crippling injuries of another, _and_ I released a computer virus that harmed countless strangers—strangers who played no role in our war. I threatened to harm a child—threatened to withhold a much-needed transplant if her father did not cooperate with me.

"I have lied to so many people, manipulated so many people, broken so many of my own rules for myself. I have brought so much pain into the world. Of the two of us, who do you think is more worthy of Detective Fusco's and Ms. Shaw's respect? Of anyone's?"

John's stomach sinks, a sickly feeling of dread starting to build inside him. He turns to Harold sharply, sending jolts of pain throughout his body. He ignores them. "Harold—"

Harold doesn't let him finish—doesn't let him start, even. "You're a hero, John. What am I?"

"You did the best you could."

"Did I?" Harold shakes his head slightly. "I'm not so sure. I'm afraid that, while our war was never so clear-cut as to have true 'heroes' and 'villains,' and I've never truly believed in either outside of fiction, I may have cast myself in the role of the latter in my attempt to be the former."

"Harold, what are you—" He knows what's coming, with a bone-deep certainty, knows what Harold is going to do. He's going to leave.

"'Set out to correct the world's wrongs and you'll almost certainly wind up adding to them,'" Harold says, his voice hollow. "I told Ms. Shaw that when we met, and I...I should probably go." Harold gets up, adding, "I am immensely relieved to find you alive, Mr. Reese," and _no_ , Harold is _not_ walking away from him again.

John didn't know he could still move so fast, or that he still had the strength to grab Harold's wrist so hard. He captures it in his grip, and Harold's eyes go wide, but not fearful. It's been a very long time since Harold looked at him with the fear he once deserved.

"Don't," John rasps. "Don't. _Please_." And he realizes something, as he looks into Harold's astonished blue eyes. The minute he woke up and discovered Harold was there—was really sitting beside him—he started to think about living. He started to think that, one day, he was going to get out of this bed, out of this damn hospital, with the most important person in his life still by his side.

And if Harold walks away now, even if it's because of Harold's own guilt? John won't survive it. It's probably not healthy—no, it's definitely not—but he needs something to cling to, some tiny glimmer of hope. And Harold has always been not just a glimmer, but a beacon of hope for him.

If he loses that, if Harold is taken from him, if Harold takes himself from him, what does he become then?

"Harold, I can't...please. Please don't leave me again."

Harold looks devastated. "John, I—"

"I need you," John whispers. Then, in a fit of bravery he didn't realize he possessed, he says it again, louder: "Harold, I _need_ you. Please."

 _I love you_ , he wants to say, but _"That would take real courage, wouldn't it?"_ Jessica says in his head, and she's right. He doesn't have it in him to say, _I love you. Don't walk away from me again. Don't leave me like you did that day. Don't fucking_ protect _me again. Please. You'll kill me. I love you._ Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Harold freezes. For a long time, he stares at John, eyes huge. He tries to say something several times, but nothing comes out. John almost wonders if Harold's forgotten how to speak. Any other time, it would've been a victory to make Harold go silent, to make the most loquacious introvert John's ever met lose his words.

Now, he just desperately wants Harold to say something. Anything. Even if it breaks him to pieces.

Harold quietly sits back down in his chair, at least. That's progress. John lets go of his wrist. Before he can withdraw fully, Harold captures John's hand in his.

"How?" Harold whispers. "How on earth could you possibly...after everything...after...John, I nearly got you _killed_. I asked so much of you—so much that I shouldn't have—and you gave and gave and gave even more than I asked, and it nearly cost you your _life_. How can you just—"

"'Sooner or later,'" John quotes, "'both of us will probably wind up dead. Actually dead this time.'" He flashes Harold a wry smile. "Nearly dead isn't dead, Harold." No matter how much he feels like he's half-dead now, always fighting the weakness and fatigue. He fights it even harder now, needing to continue. "You saved me. If it hadn't been for you, I would've died a monster years ago. Instead, I almost died a hero."

"John, I—"

"I've got a lot of regrets," John says. "This? You? It's not one of them." He gives Harold's hand a feeble little squeeze. "We saved the world, Finch. Me and you." Harold looks away, eyes starting to glisten faintly again. "Couldn't've done it without you."

Quietly, Harold says, "I just...I wish...for so many things..." He trails off, averted gaze flitting to their joined hands then back toward the wall. "This, you, Root—" His voice stumbles on her name, filled with pain, his lip trembling. "—Elias, the virus...surely there was another way."

"We all made our choice," John says. "And that choice was you. We couldn't lose you." He hates that he's the only one who made that sacrifice who's still standing and can tell Harold that, but it's a duty he'll carry out as best he can.

"We didn't want to be in a world without you in it," he adds, and can see Harold's heart break in his blinked-back tears and his bitten lip. "You meant too much to us."

"I never intended to," Harold says, barely louder than a whisper.

"Does anyone?" Harold's eyes finally meet his again, damp and shining with pain. John smiles at him for a second. "I don't regret what I did, Finch, and I don't think they did, either."

As for the virus, John's heard bits and pieces of what ICE-9 did, both before he got gunned down and after. Hospitals run on gossip, especially when some of the nurses and doctors are also working for an AI. He never has really understood the tech side of all of this, but he doesn't really need to this time. Saying Harold's gambit made a huge mess would be like calling a hurricane a windstorm. But letting Samaritan continue would've been worse. Much worse.

It was a tough decision Harold had to make, and a costly one, but it worked.

John shrugs a shoulder, even though it hurts. "Was there another way, though? Yeah, there probably was," he says. "Usually is. But now you get to work fixing stuff. You got your money back?"

Eying him curiously, Harold says, "Yes. Why—oh. Oh, I could...I've been considering either setting up some sort of charity, or just outright donating it to all the ICE-9 and Samaritan victims I can find, maybe quietly buying off a few debts…"

Harold starts rambling, planning, and John leans back, just watching and listening, dozing when Harold goes quiet. He doesn't have the brainpower to do much else, and this isn't his area anyway. But it's always a delight to watch Harold in action, that brilliant mind of his spinning and planning, sparking ideas and capturing them and turning them into something bigger and better. John loves him fiercely. He doesn't even need Harold to return it. Harold could leave him longing for the rest of his life, and John would be fine with it, just as long as Harold stayed beside him.

But judging by the way Harold won't let go of his hand, John doesn't think it's unrequited. You have to read what Harold doesn't say just as closely as what he does. Harold is saying a lot with the gentle pressure of his warm fingers against John's, with the occasional brush of his thumb on the back of John's hand, ever-wary of the IV, with the way he glances at their enjoined hands or John's face in between his rambling thoughts like he can't believe this is real, either.

And then Harold sits back, the train of thought reaching the end of the tracks. There's a glint in his eyes that John hadn't realized was missing until it returned, because it's been missing for so long now. It's the one Harold put into John's eyes all those years ago: the look of a man with a purpose.

"The world thinks we're both dead—again," Harold says. "And the records the FBI had on me are supposedly gone—even the physical copies, now. The Machine's assets took care of them. For the first time in decades, I am not a wanted man. Oh, I'm sure our friends in the more shadowy areas of the government would still like to get their hands on me, but the legitimate branches of law enforcement? Are no longer aware of my existence. I can do anything I want now." He pauses and tilts his head. "I am...not sure I know how to handle that, actually."

John manages a small chuckle. God, he knows that feeling.

"The only things I've been explicitly told I cannot do," Harold continues, "are reassuming my birth name—which I had no intention of doing anyway—and working the numbers. But according to all official reports, we both died on that rooftop, and with no surviving records of my earlier crimes, no surviving records of yours, and both of us dead? We can do anything." His eyes meet John's, wide and frightened. "Isn’t that terrifying?"

"And you want to go back to saving the world." John smiles slightly, and Harold shrugs a shoulder.

"It's what I do, and I've made such a colossal mess of the thing. There's still too much that needs to be done, too much that needs to be undone. And I can either leave fixing things to other people and have them make an equally colossal mess—or worse—or I can try to do something."

John considers that, turning it over in his head, letting it sink in. Of course Harold wants to keep trying. Even after The Machine told him to retire.

There's only one response John can give to that. "What do you need me to do?"

Harold's face falls, telling John far more than words ever could, then his expression softens. He smiles at John, and says, "I'd like you to recover, please. Then be there with me, in whatever capacity you are capable of, in whatever capacity you'd like." He looks down at their joined hands, then he glances back up at John. "I think if anyone in the world has earned a break, it's you."

Something in John's head shifts. If Harold jumps back into the fray again, if Harold starts trying to save the world again, he'll wind up putting himself in danger again. He'll go back to working the numbers. At some point, his life will, inevitably, be threatened again. And John won't be able to protect him.

He has to keep that from happening. He has to keep Harold safe.

"Us," he corrects. Harold opens his mouth to protest, and John squeezes his hand. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that your kid's pretty smart for a computer. You said it yourself—she says it's time for you to stop."

"Yes, but—"

"Harold." John says it firmly, and Harold shuts his mouth. "How are you feeling—honestly? Exhausted? Hurting?" Harold's expression barely changes—just the tiniest clenching of his jaw—and his free hand twitches toward his gut, but it doesn't need to. His skin is too pale, his posture too stiff, his eyes too haunted. He's lost too many people. He's been hurt too many times. They both have. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

John can't believe he's the one about to say this, that he's even considering it, but his body and his mind both changed on that rooftop, looks like. He'll never be the Man in the Suit again. He could work numbers from the background, like Harold, but he's never been happy with that sort of role. He won't be happy with it now. And he really won't be okay with taking a backseat role if Harold's life is on the line.

Plus, now that he's gotten a chance to think about it, retirement—actual retirement, not the CIA's definition—sounds good. If Harold doesn't quit, he can't quit. Just the thought of going back to his old gig makes him feel tired. All those times he came close to dying—none of them compare to this. And, yeah, maybe he'll feel better in a few months, but, right now, he's _tired_. His legs hurt. His arms hurt. His guts hurt. His chest, his head, _everything_ aches or burns or throbs, or all of the above. And they tell him some of it's probably going to keep hurting forever.

It's time for him to hang up his black suit for good. He needs Harold to do the same thing. "Harold, I think it's time for us to stop. Both of us."

"But I—"

"We're not getting any younger, Harold. Not getting much healthier, either. Mitigate the damage you did, and stay deep in the shadows." John smiles at him. Harold doesn't look convinced, gnawing at the corner of his crooked mouth, his entire face the picture of _troubled_. "Just consider it."

Then, to drive the point deeper, John adds, "Please. I think..." Even though he's absolutely playing dirty here, what he's about to say is still a difficult admission to make, too real and too true. He can't even do something as basic as shit on his own now, for god's sake, and just thinking about it hurts.

But he's saying it to Harold. Harold is the one person in the world who makes him feel safe, who's earned his honesty, who thinks he isn't broken, so he makes himself continue. "I think I'm gonna need your help when I get out of here. I don't..."

Shit. This is hard. This is too hard, too draining. He closes his eyes, half-tempted to play the recovering-and-drugged card and give up, half not needing to play a card at all. Then he looks at Harold—at the small, wounded, precious man who's always been stronger than him—and he grits the words out anyway, whispering, "I only ever planned on quitting when I landed in a pine box, or wound up with a black hood over my head, or worse. I don't know what to do here either. I'm not gonna be able to protect you anymore, and I just...I don't know what the hell to do.

"I need you. I need you to help me figure that out." He wants to add, _I need you to keep yourself safe, because I can't do it anymore, and I love you too much to watch you die._ He doesn't. "I don't want to be a burden to you—"

"Oh, heavens, no—you'll never be a burden."

"—but I need you."

Harold—usually a master of hiding his emotions—completely fails to hide the heartbreak in his eyes. "You're not a burden, John," he says, softly. "You are someone who is very dear to me, and I want to work with you to help you. You deserve help, care, support, and I will be there for you every step of the way, for as long as you want me present." His gaze flits to their joined hands. "Which I'm guessing is for a rather long time."

"You did say 'always' a few times," John points out, and Harold's expression goes soft and sweet.

"That I did," Harold says. "I suppose that means I've no other choice."

"Yeah." John grins. "Yeah, that's exactly what it means."

* * *

Things finally settle down between the two of them, and what John hopes is the last Year from Hell for them comes to a quiet close. He and Harold both sleep through the change from 2015 to 2016, Harold saying, "I think that's the first time I've ever done that," the next morning, as he cleans the steam from his tea off his glasses. "Nathan would be appalled."

"We're getting old, Finch," John says, unable to help grinning. He doesn't mind that he missed all the celebratory crap, all the shows with famous people he doesn't give a shit about, the boring parties, the fireworks. Waking up next to Harold, hearing Harold talk a little about Nathan—that's better than all the fireworks and champagne in the world.

And he's not the biggest fan of explosives anymore, anyway. That missile—that was enough of a fireworks show to last him the rest of his life. And Harold looks better than any firework, with his flashy red silk vest covered in golden paisley tucked under his charcoal gray jacket. It's a nice one, maybe a new one. John doesn't recognize it. It looks good. Harold looks good, cheerful, _normal_.

Harold looks like Harold again.

Harold makes a face, saying, "Oh, lord," and slips his glasses back on. "I don't think there's any 'getting' left to be done for us anymore—we _are_ old. Goodness."

"Two dead old men." John certainly feels his age these days, or older. He's betting Harold does, too. "Just need us a couple of rocking chairs and a few canes to shake at all the kids getting on our lawn."

Harold chuckles. "So long as you stick to waving a cane and don't fetch a grenade launcher or anything, I'm on board."

"Nah. Grenade launchers are for waving at grown-ups." Then, he holds up his hand. "And I think my grenade launcher days are behind me."

But that doesn't matter so much, not now, not today. There's a strange feeling he thinks might be optimism fizzing in his gut, more pleasant than any bubbles in cheap booze that's pretending to be fancy could ever be. His smile refuses to go away, and he says, "Happy New Year, Harold," and taps the tube from his IV to Harold's cup like the clink of a glass.

Harold laughs softly, and taps the cup against the tube in return, careful not to spill. "Happy New Year, John. May this one be much, _much_ better than the last."

"I'll drink to that." John waves the tube a little. "Or suck down more IV stuff to that."

They sit back and chat while Harold pecks at a bagel smeared with pinkish cream cheese. John compliments the vest, an unexpected flood of nerves warming his cheeks and fizzing in his gut, and Harold lights up, his smile so wide and cute it hurts. If he hadn't already been in love with Harold, it might've been enough to push him the rest of the way.

Harold's been making progress with his newest mission to help people, apparently, busy forging new identities that can quietly slip most of his billions into the pockets of the many people who need them.

"I'm not giving up everything," he says, "though I'm not exactly keeping it for myself, either—just enough for a comfortable life. The Machine has permission to dip into my funds whenever she needs them, and we've agreed that there may come a time when the influence of a more...sedate billionaire is needed in person when working a number."

"And Logan Pierce is anything but sedate."

Harold wrinkles his nose in disgust. "I still cannot believe that, out of all the people in the world, she recruited Mr. Pierce as one of her assets."

"Really?" _Have you met your Machine?_ he's tempted to say. "'Cause I can."

Harold heaves a sigh. "Considering some of the people that..." He trails off, his face falling, and John's stomach sinks. Root. He's thinking about Root, his heart likely aching as much as John's, if not more. They were close, their connection different from his and Harold's but just as powerful—and filled with just as many of Harold's regrets. John misses her, too, but not on the same scale. He's not the one she died for.

John reaches over and lays his hand on Harold's, and Harold's eyes meet his, wide and shining with pain. Voice gone quiet, Harold speaks again, saying, "Considering some of the other people that she has recruited, and the, ah...the voice she chose..."

"Yeah."

They sit in silence for a while, quietly sharing their grief. Too many people gone, John himself nearly one of them. To Harold, for a while, he was dead. Harold hurt over him, Harold grieved over him, Harold mourned him and buried him in his head.

"I'm sorry," he blurts out, "for letting you think I was dead for so long."

Harold's mouth drops open. He stares at John for a moment, clearly lost for words. Then he turns over his hand and wraps it gently around John's. "And how were you possibly going to tell me you were alive when you were lying in a hospital in critical condition?"

John swallows hard. "I thought about finding a way, a bunch of times. Couldn't really talk much. Didn't really try. Was...was kind of scared you wouldn't come. Or that you would." He pauses. "Mostly afraid you wouldn't."

He can practically see Harold's heart breaking. "Oh, goodness, my darling, of _course_ I came."

 _Darling_. There's that old flutter in John's stomach, warm and giddy and glowing. Harold's never called him anything like _darling_ before. It's...nice. He likes it.

"Quite frankly, I'm astounded that you _wanted_ me here," Harold continues, "that you still want me here. I was half-expecting to get here and be informed that you never wanted to see me again. After everything..."

"Yeah," John says, and Harold smiles softly, hesitantly. "Yeah, I want you here."

"You're sure?" Harold asks, sounding shy. "You're certain—absolutely certain—that you do not want me to go?" At John's nod, his smile widens slightly. "John, you _astound_ me."

"Don't see why. Thought you said you knew everything about me once. And I did say always."

"Always," Harold repeats. "That you did. And yet you continue to surprise me." He sounds so fond, his voice quiet and tender. "Your endless capacity for kindness, your resilience, your...unwavering attachment to someone as deeply flawed as me."

"I could say the same thing for you," John says. "We're, uh, a lot alike."

"That we are, Mr. Reese. That we are."

They settle into comfortable silence, Harold lost in thought and staring toward the window, John watching him. He loves watching Harold—always has. He loves Harold. And he is never letting Harold go.

After a while, Harold says, "Speaking of being mistaken for dead, I've been thinking of contacting Lionel and Sameen sometime in the next few days, if you're open to that. I think we've kept them in the dark about our survival for far too long. And Bear. I don't think Ms. Shaw will turn him loose at this point, but I...miss him. And them."

It takes a bit of thinking to make up his mind about that. For the longest time, he wasn't ready. And he's enjoyed this time with Harold, just the two of them sharing each other's company. But Fusco and Shaw—they're his friends. They're grieving over him and Harold, over Root and other friends. They went through this war, too. It's not right to keep this from them.

Is he ready? Is he ready for their anger, for their judgment, for his own guilt? Ready to face telling them he won't be going back to the numbers? Ready for whatever else they might throw at him?

"Yeah," he says. "I think it's time."

"Excellent. I must admit to a bit of...nervousness about the prospect. I don't know if they'll be quite as forgiving of me as you." Harold pauses, tilting his head, studying John's face. "I confess that your continued habit of forgiving me baffles me as well."

John raises his eyebrows, but doesn't comment.

Harold presses on. "You keep forgiving me, for some reason. Over and over again, no matter my sin, even when I don't deserve it. I'd like to know why, if you wouldn't mind telling me. I have my suspicions as to why, but…"

So many responses run through John's head, _Because I love you,_ the loudest of them all. But telling Harold that? Even after everything, he's not sure he's ready yet. So, he says, "You haven't already figured that out, Finch?" with a small smirk, hoping the fear building up inside his chest doesn't show on his face or his heart monitor. "Thought you were a genius."

"I can only speculate," Harold says, "but I don't know for sure. I'd like you to spell it out for me, please."

John starts to speak, but only manages to choke out, "Harold, I—" before words fail him. He gives Harold a helpless look. God, it's kind of ridiculous. He _died_. Countless bullets and a missile tore his body to pieces, drained his blood and burned his skin and stopped his heart, and he can't even tell the guy he died for—the guy he _lived_ for—why he took those bullets without fear, why he walked so gladly toward death that time when it had always been just an alternative to misery before, why he'll never blame Harold for any of it. Why dying for Harold was his happy ending.

 _"I'm in love with you."_ Just a few simple words. Shit. How is it so hard to get them out?

"Would it help if I told you something first?" Harold asks. "If I confided in you?"

"I don't know," John answers honestly. "It might."

"Then I'll tell you why I left Grace." Harold pauses. "When I returned to her, she was so happy to see me. To simply be with me after everything brought her such joy, but I felt...I felt as though I would never be happy again, like I did not deserve to be happy again, like I was simply incapable of it."

He folds his hands on John's bed and looks down at them. "And there was the guilt. I noticed it most keenly when I fell ill—the pain I caused her with my own pain. She was so kind to me, she suffered alongside me, and I couldn't bear it. So I took the coward's way out, and I left."

With a heavy sigh, Harold looks at him again, their eyes meeting. "I did at least tell her that I was leaving this time. She knows that I'm alive, knows why I left. She knows some of the reasons why I broke her heart again. Not all of them. And I don't think she understood—truly understood—that if I stayed, it would slowly poison her. That I had to break her heart again to keep from destroying it with my grief."

"You lost too much," John says, laying his hand atop Harold's, and Harold nods. "Too many people."

Barely above a whisper, Harold says, "Yes." When he speaks again, though, his voice is stronger. "I watched my best friend die, watched them pull that bloody sheet over his head, and listened to operatives from our own government confirm that they had completed their mission. I watched Joss die in your arms, watched Arthur quietly pass away. Then Elias was gone, and Root was gone, and then you. I watched you-you and her and him, all of you _die_ for _me_ , and I—"

Harold wipes at his eyes. "Yours is not the only life that has been touched by grief since the beginning, by the loss of nearly everyone you've ever dared to love. My mother died when I was very young—so young that I have no memories of her. My father...he withered away before my eyes, started losing his memory when I was just a child. I watched, and I watched, and there was nothing I could do to stop it—even now, there would be nothing I could do. There's no cure, still, despite how much money I and others have poured into the search, how much I continue to pour into it.

"I had already inflicted enough pain on her—on Grace—with my previous death, put her through the same pain I'd been through. Pain she never earned, that she absolutely didn't deserve. And I couldn't...every night, I thought of you, and of them, of so very many people, and it hurt so much. And I wanted you back—all of you, but you especially. Losing you…"

He pauses, and takes a slow, shaky breath. "I couldn't stop thinking about you. I'd see your face when I closed my eyes. I'd hear your voice in the silence. I'd come across something, and I'd think, _Oh, John needs to see this_ , then I'd reach for an earpiece that wasn't there to talk to someone who wasn't there because of me. I sent you texts, I sent you emails, and then the second I hit send, I'd remember. I feared my mind was slipping. Grief plays such cruel tricks on the brain, doesn't it?

"I'd think of all the things I wanted to tell you...and the one thing I _needed_ to tell you. And I couldn't do that, and I thought for sure that it would kill me.

"It took me a bit to realize why, out of all of the people I've lost, my mind kept coming back to you. Why I kept thinking of you, why I kept longing for you, why I wanted you back more than family, more than someone who had been dear to me for decades—it took me so long to figure out why, to figure out that it wasn't just the freshness of my grief, or the guilt over your sacrifice. And when I did, the pain was _indescribable_."

He takes hold of John's hand again and laces their fingers together.

"Harold?" John whispers.

"Remember how often people used to mistake us for the _other_ type of partners?" Harold lets out a tiny, miserable laugh. "I think they saw something I never thought to look for. How silly of me. I didn't realize what my heart wanted—who my heart wanted—until I had left Grace. Thank god. It would have been cruel to leave her for a dead man, wouldn't it?

"It's funny—I spent all those years wanting her, longing for her, and then when I thought I could finally have her, I had changed so completely that even my desires had shifted," Harold says. "My affection for her remains undiminished, but I found it...rather overshadowed by my love for another. For someone I thought I'd lost my chance with."

He untangles his hand from John's grip, and he leans over, wincing briefly, and cups John's face in his palm. John can't help closing his eyes and pressing his face into the touch, into Harold's soft, warm, gentle hand. "For you."

John looks up at him, into Harold's shining, fond blue eyes, and whispers, "I wanted you to get your happily-ever-after."

"And yet you almost rendered that impossible," Harold says. He traces his thumb over John's lips, and John can't help kissing the pad of his finger. Harold smiles. "But I suppose it's not so impossible now, is it?"

"No," John says. "Not impossible." Nothing feels impossible anymore.

Briefly, Harold smiles. "When The Machine told me that you were alive, albeit touch-and-go...it was one of the greatest moments of my life. And I saw our future stretching out before me. A lovely townhouse that I later purchased for the two of us—those keys I gave you go to its doors. More dogs, maybe a cat—how do you feel about cats? I don't believe I've ever asked you."

"I like cats," John says. "Cats, dogs, turtles—can we have a turtle? Always kinda wanted a turtle."

Harold lets out a small laugh. "Of course we can. We can have whatever you like." His smile lingers, soft and unrestrained, honest, real. "I saw us finding peace together. I'm not sure a _normal_ life is in the cards for the two of us, but I believe peace should be attainable, don't you? Anyway, it was a bit presumptuous of me to buy us a home, I admit, if my feelings weren't returned, but I think we could've made it work. And that I could have found happiness in a continued close friendship.

"I want to spend my life with you, John—the rest of my life with you. Whether that's as friends or as lovers is up to you. I'm amenable to both." He gives John a gentle, curious look that goes straight to the depths of John's soul. "Am I right in guessing that you are in this relationship—in whatever form your feelings toward me take—for the long haul as well?"

 _You still want me like this?_ John thinks, but that's unfair to Harold. Harold is shallow and snobbish about many, many things, but people have never been one of them. Though Harold wanting him is baffling, even without his new injuries to consider. He'll probably never take another life, but that doesn't erase what he's already done. "Why me?"

Harold's smile turns sad, and he strokes John's cheek. "Oh, goodness. There are a great many reasons, and it pains me that you cannot see them. You do not realize your own worth, do you—you never have. But the shortest answer? My heart wants you. Is there a greater reason in the world than that to love somebody?

"But you also made a great, great sacrifice to save my life—nearly your final one. And while I don't approve, I also can't deny that it was...a _very_ powerful gesture."

"I did it 'cause I love you." John's voice shakes as he finally says those three terrifying words aloud. "But I don't—" He tries to swallow the lump in his throat, and whispers, "I don't deserve you."

"Nor I you." Harold tilts his head slightly, contemplative, and he leans back in his seat. "But perhaps, at this point, what we deserve doesn't matter so much anymore. Maybe it's time to try pursuing what we want first.

"You're not the only one in this partnership who has done terrible things, John," Harold continues. "I suspect neither one of us qualifies as 'good men' anymore. But you make me better. You make me want to be better. And I'd like to keep trying with you for as long as you'll have me."

"Whatever you want," John says, "for as long as you want."

"What about what _you_ want?" Harold gives him a piercing, searching look. "I haven't missed your tendency to put others' desires ahead of your own—especially mine. You never have been any good at denying the people you love anything, especially me. What do _you_ want?"

"I just want you." There's no uncertainty, no hesitance. That question's easy to answer. He wants Harold. "Been in love with you for a while. Always thought nothing would happen, but now..."

"Now you know otherwise," Harold says.

"Yeah." John swallows. "I want you, for as long as I can have you. Always, if I can get it."

"Always," Harold says, with a nod, "if I can give it."

It's not easy to maneuver around the mess of wires and tubes and other medical crap, or around the limitations of both their bodies, but they make it work. Harold's lips meet his, warm and soft, agile and slow, and it feels like _finally_ , like John's just now waking up.

John's left hand lands on Harold's chest, flat over Harold's sternum, and John _feels_ it all—the smooth gold and red paisley silk beneath his palm, the crisp cotton of Harold's white shirt, the warm and steady lushness of Harold underneath. The easy sensuality of Harold's soft, thin lips on his, stealing what little breath his battered lungs hold. All of it coalesces inside him, melding with the taste of Harold on his tongue and the familiar smells that make up Harold, turning to a warm glow that fills him everywhere, from the depths of his belly to the tips of his fingers and toes.

Harold's hand finds his, pinning it to his chest as Harold deepens the kiss, and, goddamn, Harold is so much better at this than him. All John can do is enjoy it, and he does, letting himself be kissed until he feels like his brain and body are melted, until he's little more than a boneless mess of contentment in his hospital bed, until he's drowning in the simple joy of kissing Harold.

This is _his_ , John realizes, as he savors the feeling of Harold surrounding his senses. He gets to have this for as long as he wants it. He gets to be with the person he nearly gave everything to save.

Harold pulls back, flushed and breathless, eyes huge behind his fogged up, crooked glasses. "Oh," he says, and he looks so startled and rumpled and endearing that John can't help falling even more in love with him. "Oh, that was...absolutely worth doing."

It's so purely _Harold_ of him that John can't help a small laugh, even as his heart clenches and threatens to burst both at once in his chest. "Yeah," he says, tracing his fingers down Harold's body, then letting his palm rest over the part of Harold's belly that he still clutches so often. Harold's face falls, and he places his hand over John's.

"We almost missed out on this," Harold says, and lays his other hand on John's chest, where they cracked it open. "John, I'm so sorry."

"We finally got here, though," John points out. "Better late than never, right?" John considers that for a moment. "In both senses of 'late.' Since we're both dead."

"Not anymore," Harold says. "I think there may be a few signs of life left in us yet."

Life. That sounds pretty good, for once—hard, complicated, _terrifying_ , but good. And sharing that life with Harold?

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe dying for Harold wasn't his happy ending after all. Building a life with him, though, then spending the rest of it with him? Maybe that could be the right ending for him.

Maybe that could be the right life for him.


End file.
